Countess Minna was becoming disdainful. She had come suddenly upon Ompertz in the park, and he had startled her as much by his unexpected question as by his abrupt appearance. But she had quickly recovered herself.
“It is scarcely a matter to speculate about. Give your letter to the first usher or page you see.”
She was thrilled with curiosity; but thought she knew better than to show it.
Ompertz laughed. Perhaps he saw inquisitiveness peeping through the mask of dignity. “That would hardly do,” he objected. “I should have said, given secretly.”
Her curiosity now was intense, nevertheless she contrived to look indignant.
“Then I should say the question you might speculate about is whether the Princess would care to receive it,” she returned.
“True enough,” he assented heartily, “if it came from so humble a person as myself. I am but a messenger.” He paused, as loving to tantalize her. But she gave no voice to the curiosity that was in her eyes. “It is from Lieutenant von Bertheim.”
“Ah!” she made a quick movement, then checked herself. “I suppose,” she said sarcastically, “you have been commissioned to bait a trap for the Princess, and are, as usual, dutifully obeying orders.”
The thrust called forth a little laugh. “Anyhow, I disobeyed orders pretty thoroughly last night,” he returned, “or the hand that wrote this would never have held pen again.”
She was still mystified, but her expression softened.